


Remind Me Again and Again

by Froggyflan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, i am weak, self indulgent writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He opens his mouth and lets out a scream he's been holding in his whole fucking life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remind Me Again and Again

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to write fucked up Junkrat is that so bad shut up I love it.

Junkrat hates this.

His bandages are itchy, the bed is hot, and his entire body is sweating like it's January back home. Throwing off the sheets and baring himself to the motel air conditioner doesn't do a thing for him.

Hog tells him he has a fever. He says that's what happens when you lose a leg.

He lets out fast ragged breaths and it relieves some of the heat, like he's a panting dog. The harder he breathes, the quicker the relief. He feels himself tensing with each gasp.

The bed beside him is empty, and the moonlight shines white through the window. Hog had closed the curtains because they were still on the run and didn't want anyone seeing them, but he'd opened them as soon as he left. You can't just leave Junkrat in a little dark box.

His skin is crawling. He wants to move.

He glides his hand through dirt and sweat, mixing together to make a brown paint over his skin. His fingers dip into the concave nature of his stomach, drawing smiley faces in the mess all over him. It tickles and itches and makes him jittery. The distraction isn't enough. He's sizzling like a goddamn egg on the pavement.

“Shit,” whispers and fades into the quietness of the motel. He throws his head back on the pillow and pants. He was going to burn away in an instant, leaving nothing but charred remains. He won't last much longer.

He opens a weak eye to the bathroom across the small room. A cold shower, maybe.

No. He’s a cripple now. Thinking about it makes his insides knot up. It wasn’t enough to lose his arm, but his leg too? He takes quick little breaths and shifts his tightly wrapped stump forward.

No no no no.

A long cry leaves him before he can even hear it, his flesh hand trembling. Jesus titty fucking Christ.

There’s blood in the bandages. He doesn’t remember the last time he changed them. Some of it’s new. Moving it feels like the bone is wiggling in his flesh, crushed and open. Deep breaths. 

He falls back on the bed, wet with sweat, and tries to steady the shaking. It would be great if the world could just bugger off and things could go his way for a change.

He presses his metal arm over his eyes, and it cools him down just barely. More inhaling.

He’s a damn good chemist, he thinks. A right expert. Nobody even taught him how to do it, learned it all from fucking around, trial and error. He made his first bomb out of an old dented muffler and a bottle of whiskey. Can’t even remember how he did it, but it was a fine specimen.

And yet he cooked himself like a damn fool. Hog had always told him he was going to blow his fingers off, playing with things like he did. Junkrat would tell him he weren’t his mum and he could do what he wanted. He was a grown ass man.

His chest gets tight and his throat closes up. He was wrong. Hog was right. Just like always.

He liked messing with new stuff, taking them apart and making them interesting, more fun. Boring things got fixed together to make nice things, useful things. That’s what you did in Junkertown, and that’s what he did his whole life living in the garbage. You work with what you got.

He doesn’t remember what exactly went wrong, but he knew the moment he pulled out that new bomb of his, one he’d made out of newer compounds, straight from some lab he’d ransact, and it clicked in his hand quietly. He dropped it as quick as he could, he should have thrown it, should have thrown it, and it blew him apart, shrapnel destroying him the same way he'd watched it destroy so many other things. 

His breath quickens thinking about it, his eyebrows knitting up on his face and his heart racing like it was happening all over again. He remembers the feeling of having a leg, and then it was gone in an instant. He remembers in that moment feeling nothing, looking at the goo that his leg had turned into, the bones and blood and muscle mashed up like beef, and then suddenly it all rushed upon him in a vile sick pain that made his heart stop and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

He flips over quickly and vomits into the trashcan by the bed. His leg bursts with pain as he shifts it, his body heaving. He barely has the strength to lift his head up, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

He remembers the feeling of Roadhog lifting him up off the ground, ruined and bleeding to death. Big hands encompassed his whole body like he were nothing, slipped his mask over his face and shoved some nasty filters in his mouth. They didn’t even finish the heist. He’d passed out like an absolute blotto.

Hog hasn’t said much to him since then, and it's tearing him up like that bomb had. He knows he was an idiot, his partner doesn't need to rub it in by not talking to him. Roadhog wasn't much of a talker to begin with, but his silence now just makes the burn inside him well up and spill over. 

His eyes are cloudy and wet, and he rubs at them until they sting. Ain't nothing ever got better by crying. It was a death sentence where he was from. People who cried could never make it on their own. The world ate them up one by one until only the murderers were left. 

His throat clenches and a deep anger washes over him, unrelenting and unquenchable. Tears finally leave him and he can't push them back in. He opens his mouth and lets out a scream he's been holding in his whole fucking life. 

He presses a metal palm to his eyes until he sees stars and colors, his throat ripping open as the sound continues. The longer it goes on, the more he can’t hold it in. Every ounce of him pours out in a disgusting show of weakness. And he is weak, always has been. 

Get it under control, you're an absolute cock. But it keeps coming and there's no stopping it now. He takes a sharp labored breath and when he exhales, it's choked and tender and it gives him away.

He doesn't even notice the door opening. 

It's hard to breathe still. Maybe if he lets it out now it’ll never come back. He feels his lips tighten into an ugly grimace. It’s been locked up a long time. He’s got bad thoughts, bad words crawling up from his belly into his brain and he’s letting it happen.

He puts off the pressure and blinks wetly, sore red eyes trying to focus behind murk and salt. Roadhog is watching him silently, still as stone behind that mask, and Junkrat goes into a frenzy, scrambling despite the ache and letting out a howl that sends shivers down his own spine.

“Fucking cunt!” He’s barely spoken all day, and he hears it in the way he rasps and cracks. “Fuck you!”

Roadhog doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything. And that makes everything worse. Fat tears roll down his dirty red face. 

“Ya shitfuck,” he croaks out, and he’s wrecked. “Get the fuck outta here!”

Roadhog takes a step closer to the bed, and it makes Junkrat boil and froth. He tenses up and presses himself to the wall next to the bed, raging pain overtaking his bum leg when he moves. He hopes the wall will burst open and he can hide in it.

“Shit! I said get out, ya yobbo! Don’t fucking look at me!”

His arm is pressed against his face again, trying to block out the idea of Roadhog looking at him right now, the way he is. He imagines the look of pity behind that stupid mask and he grits his teeth audibly.

A big hand wraps around his small waist, and he immediately slams his fist into one of the knuckles with a high pitched yelp. “Don’t!”

He’s dragged to the other side of the bed, closer, and Junkrat’s digging his dirty fingers into the dingy mattress to stay far away. He bares his teeth in what he hopes is a menacing way as he turns his face toward his bodyguard, gnashing and growling. He can’t hold on very well, the way he trembles and panics, and he’s soon being lifted up, the sheets ripped from his grasp. Another big hand slips under him to cradle his upper half, his head fitting into the crook between his thumb and forefinger.

This is what it felt like when he was lifted from the ground, gorey and completely fucked. He was small, nothing to him. Just a ragdoll, dirty and not all there.

Junkrat turns and bites down on the thumb, mouth filling with salty skin, and pushes down hard enough to draw blood. Roadhog doesn’t even flinch, just pulls him in closer, and Junkrat wishes the bomb had finished the job.

Roadhog watches him intently from behind his second face, and Junkrat doesn’t want to lose this fight. He’s lost too many. He lets off only to spit the blood right between the mask’s globed eyeholes.

“Fuck you,” comes out upset and not as strong as he hoped. But he knows he’s pitiful, just wants Roadhog not to think the same. The fingers holding him are gentle instead of deadly for once, and it makes him sick.

Junkrat eventually runs out of ways to say fuck off, and his tears are hot and unyielding. He kicks and scratches like a trapped animal until he succumbs. The fever is still strong, it's still hard to breathe. The room is dark, the curtains closed again, and silence comes for just a moment.

“Here,” Roadhog finally says, and it’s deep and booming like a bomb going off far away. He adjusts him in his hands slowly, rolls up his ragged shorts, and unwraps the bandages on the ruined leg. Junkrat watches him cautiously.

Scabs rip off as the ribbons of gauze come undone. As the layers give way, they turn darker, redder. He rubs at his eyes to get rid of any more embarrassment. The shaking hasn’t let up.

Thick fingers brush against his cheek, and he gets a little flustered as Roadhog lifts his stump up to inspect it. It’s swollen, the stitches are still raw and black, and maybe he’d ripped a few when he was flailing about, but he can handle it. Didn’t want a pretty scar anyway.

“Careful,” is murmured behind old leather, and Junkrat realizes he’s baring his teeth again. Something about the way the pig handles him, something about the way he ignores him even though he’s looking right at him, makes Junkrat want to disappear. 

“Stop it,” he barks, and he isn’t sure what he wants him to stop, stop everything, but there’s nothing behind it.

“No.”

The last of the gauze comes away and it reveals the real horror show. The blast had ripped nearly all the way up to his bits, too many staples. The skin is red as berries, white at the edges. 

“It's infected.”

Junkrat scoffs. “Who gives a shit?”

Roadhog moves to the bathroom with his charge in tow, who slaps and fights back half heartedly. There's tons of medicine and gauze on the counter, and he doesn't know how they got there. Roadhog sits him by the sink and turns on the water, letting it get warm.

“You need to wash it or it'll rot.”

“Who,” and he's glaring hard at that blood spattered mask, “gives a shit?”

He watches the big man's fists clench and the leather of his glove squeaks menacingly. Hit him. Fucking hit him. He wants nothing more than to forget this ever happened, maybe punch him so hard his neck snaps. Wouldn’t that be apples?

One of those hands grip his stump tightly above the stitches and Junkrat curses loudly. Hog leans in and Junkrat shrinks, eyes wild and lost in the two glassy windows staring at him. 

Roadhog wordlessly pushes his stump under the running water and Junkrat immediately shrieks and flails about, spraying water across them both. It was pure unfiltered agony, stinging and pulsating. Like he was losing it all over again. 

His hand strikes out to grab at Roadhog, and he takes him by the arm in a death grip. He whines Roadhog’s name low, small, his real name, and Roadhog is all over him in an instant, brushing down his battered back and tucking his smoldered sweat clumped hair under his chins. Junkrat breathes, unsteady and weak. He mutters it in a mantra, a real name, and each time he's rewarded with tenderness he didn't earn. It’s a safe word.

“Hold on.”

Junkrat’s grip on the arm shifts up to his shoulder, wrapping it around his fat neck and taking a fistful of silver hair. He presses his face to Roadhog’s chest and gasps for air slowly. Think about something nice. Think about tea and blueprints and Roadhog, just Roadhog.

He’s moved back under the faucet, and he yells as fiercely as he can, out of breath and close to passing out for good. Hands massage at the wound, working away until it goes numb, soap foaming at the dead skin. Some of it comes off right into the sink, suds pink like champagne, and he feels he’s going to vomit again.

“Hold on,” he says again, and Junkrat does.

Roadhog towels him off, patting as softly as he can, and it comes back red as Christmas. He tosses it and grabs one of the many bottles strewn about him. 

“It's going to sting.”

Junkrat doesn't even have words anymore, which he's sure has never happened before. He wants to say something cheeky, but everything's been drained from him and he's tired. He blinks and it lasts a long time. 

“Hey,” brings him back, makes him open his mouth to respond but there's nothing there. He can't open his eyes. “Stay with me, boss.”

He likes when he calls him that. A big hand tilts him, lets his head rest in the cup of his palm, and the smell of sterile alcohol sends him back. That had been really scary, alone in that room with doctors and nurses, clean and unnatural. As soon as he was awake, he was yelling out for him, and it was only a second later that he’d muscled his way past every security guard in the building, sack full of loot in one arm and Junkrat in the other. That explains the supplies, he thinks.

“Hey,” he repeats, snapping loud in his face. He turns slowly in the hand and presses a wide thumb to his face. He couldn’t do this. Roadhog sighs long and quiet. “Don’t scream.”

He takes a deep breath, and Roadhog takes that as the go. The disinfectant splashes on him, and he knew he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t, can’t. The burn is instant and overwhelming, seizing him by the throat and making him scream until he swears he feels blood in his mouth, and it’s all muffled in Roadhog’s finger. He tries to stay still, but it’s sizzling away and bubbling at his skin, the sound of meat frying, and he’s scrambling to shake it out.

Roadhog keeps him there, pours more on. He won’t forgive him. It’s terrible, insidious. He’s lost control of his face, tears and spit and snot rubbing into Roadhog’s thumb and he’s sniveling and pleading for him to stop. Nothing was worse than this. The pleas are ignored.

Eventually it’s over, and he’s still begging long after he’s wiped down and bandaged. His arms loop around his bodyguard loosely, and he doesn’t remember putting them there, but Roadhog saddles him up against his chest and goes back to their beds. A plethora of pills are popped into his mouth one by one, and he’s got plenty of saliva pooling around his gums to swallow them without trouble.

Roadhog lays down, the bed groaning, and Junkrat comes with him, resting belly to belly. His lithe body curves perfectly against Roadhog’s pronounced gut, fitting like a puzzle piece, lifting him up with each wheezy breath the man takes, and it soothes so thoroughly that the pulsing in his leg is faint and unimportant. It lulls him quickly.

Roadhog says his name this time, low, quiet, but so loud in the dark. It’s something he doesn’t hear very often, and maybe he’d forgotten it. Junkrat’s lips tighten into a frown, clenching his fists atop that big stomach. He rests his head against it, his ear pressed to soft tattooed skin, and listens to the troubled breathing beneath it. He closes his eyes, hurting from the lack of sleep, the incessant rubbing. He counts the heartbeats thumping against his face. The world is slow, so slow. He hears it, bump bump, 1, 2, 3.

Junkrat says his name too, and he feels the tightness in his chest coming apart, dissolving. A big hand rests atop his back, holding him there, letting him listen. It’s so hot, his skin still ablaze with fever, touching makes him sticky and uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t move for anything. Roadhog hums something, and he presses closer. Words leave him that don’t feel like his own, and they’re met with old memories and quiet nothings. His mind is still, and he’s wished for this.

They call for each other until the night takes them.

**Author's Note:**

> I am scum please come say hi and give me prompts.  
> Froggyflan.tumblr.com


End file.
